


Money Where Your Mouth Is

by Werelibrarian



Category: Daredevil (Comics)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Divorce, Identity Porn, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-30
Updated: 2017-04-30
Packaged: 2018-10-25 16:13:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10767825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Werelibrarian/pseuds/Werelibrarian
Summary: Foggy chuckles again. “Don’t be perverted. We were like every healthy married couple—or at least we were at the beginning. Just use your imagination.”“You can’t tell me not to be a pervert and then tell me to use my imagination,” Matt says softly.





	Money Where Your Mouth Is

**Author's Note:**

> Daredevil Bingo square: Interrogation
> 
> Set after Daredevil Vol. 1, Issue 218

Matt arrives home in a foul mood. The suit sticks to the small of his back and the inside of the mask smells like old shoes—that's what he gets for stuffing himself into a clown costume that has probably been marinated in flop-sweat one too many times.

He should be happy. The clown-costume ruse had paid off and he'd caught the criminal—an egomaniac calling himself the Jester—but everything about the day keeps pinching at him, like a jacket too tight across the shoulders.

The house is still and quiet as a tomb. Nothing has been moved or touched since he left this morning. No one's rinsed out the glass in the sink; his book is still open and face down on the kitchen table. All the space clogged up with the presences of the the absent ex-girlfriend. All the warmth and the lilting laughter Matt was growing used to now on an airplane to Ireland with no promise to return.

Her scent clings to the upholstery; when he steps out of the bath, he finds strands of her hair crushed into the fabric of his dressing gown.

He switches on the record player and sits down with a cup of green tea. When he touches his mouth to the rim, he tastes Natasha. She must have made herself a drink while she was hiding here a few days ago, blinded and terrified and not for a second admitting to it. And who had bought him the expensive tea in the first place? Heather. Rich, vivacious Heather, who spent money on him so freely and so gaily before she realized he wasn't free and gay enough to keep up with her. Last he heard, she was letting Tony Stark sniff around her ankles and God knew what else.

His house _was_ a tomb, it turns out. A tomb of failed love affairs.

On the other side of the living room, the telephone emits a crackle of electricity—the ringer is about to sound. He gets up and engages the line part-way through the first shrill ring.

"Matt Murdock."

"Matty," Foggy slurs.

"Are you drunk?" Matt feels his back teeth clench. He left Foggy at the diner hours ago. Debbie's moved out, she's asking for a divorce, Foggy said, trying to bury his broken heart in greasy food, and Matt had to excuse himself, disgusted with the mirror that Foggy presented of Matt's own self-pity.

"What? No," Foggy says, but his vowels are lying. He's at least a few drinks in. "How's your evening, kid?"

"I'm having a cup of tea," Matt says. "Are you alright?"

"She's leaving me, Matt," Foggy says, choked, "I couldn't make her happy."

"I know, Foggy. I'm sorry. She—" _Debbie might have loved you once, but by the end she just wanted the fame you could bring her. And when you turned out to be better than that, she went looking elsewhere_. "—you want different things now. It's no one's fault."

"It's my fault," Foggy sniffles, and the plastic of the phone creaks in Matt's grip, "I wanted to be what she needed—I wanted to give it all to her, just like I said I would, but I couldn't." He gulps something noisily.

"Stop drinking, Foggy. It won't help."

"She's moved into a hotel. She packed a bag, but her things are still everywhere I turn." Matt mumbles something sympathetic. "Can you come over?" Foggy asks.

Matt sighs internally. "Sure, buddy. I'll be there in a few minutes."

He pulls on a sweater without bothering with a shirt and simply pushes his wet hair to one side before shrugging into a coat.

After Foggy buzzes him into the building, Matt pushes open the apartment door without knocking. Foggy sputters as he not-so-gently snatches the tumbler and dumps the contents into the kitchen sink.

"I'm not losing you to the bottle," Matt growls.

Foggy's silence is sullen. "I know what I'm doing."

"Like hell. This place smells like a chicken fryer and God knows what went crunch under my shoe when I walked in."

Foggy rubs his eyes. "S'fine."

"You're not fine, you're a mess."

"You've only figured that out that now?" Foggy says bitterly, "this is who I've always been, buddy-boy. You've just—ha—never seen it."

"Foggy, that's just the booze talking. This isn't you. My best friend isn't a self-pitying has-been who dives at the first punch. "

Foggy rests his elbows on his knees and hangs his head low between his shoulders, looking every inch the beaten-down boxer. "And give me one reason why I shouldn't dive, Saint Matthew. Tell me what I've got to fight for."

Matt spreads his fingers along his leg—when had he clenched his fists?

"Becky won't return my calls—why should she, after I called her a liar on television? You basically kicked me out of the firm when I did, and the look on your face some days, Matt—you're not sure you want me back in."

"She'll forgive you, Foggy. Just give her time." He doesn't say anything about forgiveness on his own behalf. Because Matt was the one who stayed with Becky when the newspapers had laid siege to her apartment building, he was the one who witnessed Micah Synn's deranged human sacrifices, and he's the one left to wonder how many people would be still alive if Debbie—and helping her, Foggy—hadn't bolstered Synn's power in New York.

Matt sits heavily on the sofa next to Foggy. Around him, he feels silks and fine tweeds rather than the upholstery. He lifts a garment to his nose and smells Jean Patou Joy.

"So what's your plan, son?" he waves a handful of silk, "hole up in your apartment with Debbie's blouses and never come out again?"

"Thinkin' about it."

"The firm needs you."

"No, it doesn't. You never need me. Becky doesn't need me. No one needs _me._ I'm the one who always—" Foggy swallows, "you'll do fine without me. Hell, you'll probably do better."

"Don't kid yourself, Foggy. I can't run Nelson and Murdock without Nelson." He grips Foggy's shoulder, feels the shudder run through it.

"I lied. I did a bad thing, Matt, but I did it for Debbie. So she wouldn't leave me." He rubs his face again. "It's ok. I know you're worried about me, but this is exactly what I deserve."

"That's ridiculous," Matt bites out.

"Do you think she ever loved me?" Foggy mutters.

Matt sits back, thinking. Their knees touch. "I'm not the one to ask. But I hope so. She was happy on your wedding day, I remember that."

Matt doesn't remember that. Between having to save a social worker from a maniac with saw blades on his arms, searching for the lost wedding ring, and listening close to Foggy's jubilant heartbeat to drown out the words the priest was saying, Matt was barely paying attention to Debbie at all.

"She was beautiful, Matt. Just the most perfect woman—" Foggy wipes his eyes and strikes the arm of the sofa.

"I'll have to take your word on that," Matt says, not meanly.

"I'll never love a woman like I love her." Foggy's words smear together and his head dips towards Matt's shoulder.

In college, he didn't drink very much, but Foggy, who always had more friends that Matt, would come back from nights on the town with a giddy heartbeat pounding in his plump cheeks.

"You're soused," Matt decreed.

"No, I'm not, I'm just glowing!"

"Glowing is what women do, Foggy. You're probably so drunk your nose is red."

"Feel my face, Matt, I'm cool and sober as a judge!" Giggling, he took up Matt's hands and pressed his palms to his cheeks.

Matt had laughed then, holding Foggy by his flushed face. Now, he puts his arm around Foggy's shoulder hesitantly. He's tipsy-drunk, curling instinctively towards Matt's warmth and understanding, such as it is.

"I know you didn't like her, Matt. You don't have to pretend for me now."

Foggy's wife is a fickle, ambitious social climber, someone who only ever thinks about what she could get out of a person, and at the start, she used that ambition to prod Foggy up the social and legal ladder. Matt wonders if she's like that now, after the brutal wake-up call of falling for a warlord who tried to kill her. He breathes against Foggy's hair. "I liked Debbie as much as she made you happy, and that's the God's honest truth."

"She was always so wonderfully dressed. You probably couldn't tell, but she always looked like she stepped right out of a magazine," Foggy sniffles. His hand moves drunkenly in front of him, like he's sculpting Debbie from thin air. "But I always loved her the best when she took all that expensive stuff off." Matt thinks about Glori wearing his bathrobe, sitting on his bed with her feet tucked under her. He hums so it sounds like he's listening.

"Sometimes, when we came home from a party, and she'd take off her evening gown but leave her hair and jewellery. She was a goddess then, Matt, in her pearls and her nightdress so thin I could see the moonlight through it. And her hips, Matt, the way they flared out under my hands, when I held her from behind—that's how she liked it, you know? Sometimes I think she just didn't want to look at me, but most of the time I didn't mind, because _I_ got to see everything and—um, and. And." Foggy hangs his head, "Matty, I think I'm drunk."

Matt's throat clicks; he's listening now. "Yeah?" he rasps.

"I shouldn't be telling you this kinda stuff about us."

Matt nods, vaguely. Debbie's attractive; even if Matt couldn't figure that out for himself, Foggy's body has told him as much. But he doesn't care about how Debbie likes to be made love to, it's the image of Foggy gripping her hips in his wide-palmed hands that's making Matt's throat go dry.

"There's no shame in wanting your wife, Foggy," he says roughly.

"Soon to be ex-wife," mutters Foggy in return, his knuckles dragging along the texture of Matt's sweater. "I'll always be on fire for her, Matt. I know I don't seem like the kind of man who could satisfy a woman like her, but goddamn it, I could."

Foggy's palm lands on Matt's thigh. "I could. I did."

Matt swallows hard. "How?"

Foggy chuckles, low and grim. "Don't worry, it's nothing you couldn't do, champ."

"That's not an answer." Foggy just hums, so Matt jostles him gently. "No secrets now, stud."

Foggy chuckles again. "Don't be perverted. We were like every healthy married couple—or at least we were at the beginning. Just use your imagination."

"You can't tell me not to be a pervert and then tell me to use my imagination," Matt says softly. His mind is reeling. The soft bulk of Foggy's hip against the inner of Debbie's spread thighs. His hands in her hair—Matt thinks she wore it relatively short, Foggy would have to grip hard to hang on. Scratches on his shoulders, love-bites on the back of her neck.

"Silly me," Foggy says, and leans in more heavily. His hair sticks to Matt's lips. They haven't been like this since before the wedding. Sure, there have been back-slaps, grips of the arm through their suit jackets, one or two hugs. But not like this, pressed together from ribs to knees, so close that they feel each other breathing.

"Did you go down on her?"

"Yeah."

"Did she go down on you?"

Foggy makes a pained, aroused sound. "Yeah."

"Was she good at it?"

"She was the best."

Matt licks his lips. The best out of how many? How many women have wrapped their mouth around Foggy Nelson's girth? It can't be that big a number; at Columbia Matt would have heard—the rumours if not the act itself—if the girls thought Foggy was worth ruining their nylons for.

"On the bed? Or the sofa?"

"Sure."

"On her knees?"

Foggy's inhale is sharp. "Yeah."

A sort of savage anticipation runs through Matt's body, the same way he feels when he's about to pick a fight. "She always seemed like a delicate girl, you know."

"Deb? So?"

"Could she take it all?" Matt gulps. "All of you?"

Foggy gulps too—they're on the far edge of the way men talk. Any further would be—abnormal. "No."

"No, you're a gentleman. You wouldn't let her try, would you. You made sure she never choked on it, probably digging your nails into the sofa trying not to move."

"Matt," Foggy groans. "Matty, fuck."

"Have you ever? Has anyone ever gone—so far down that you—"

"Once," Foggy pants, "Oh God, I haven't thought about him in years."

Matt hisses his inhale. "Who was it?"

"Larry."

The tension in the room pops like a bubble at Foggy's joke. "From law school?" Matt laughs, "no, really, I want to know."

"It _was_ Larry. Before exams, in the law library when it was open all night." A little teasing sneaks into Foggy's voice. "In the stacks."

And just like that, the tension comes back—in the thickness of the air, in all of Matt's muscles straining to keep from pushing Foggy down into the cushions and insisting he unroll the whole story, starting with if he was going to get blown by a man, why Larry and not Matt. He takes a deep, not-at-all-calming breath. "Tell me more."

"He'd been looking at me all evening," Foggy says, unhesitatingly. "When I handed him a pen, he put his fingers over mine. He just kept. Staring. And then he asked me to help him find a casebook, but I didn't put it together right away."

"When did you?"

Foggy smiles against Matt's neck. "When he knelt down and opened my belt."

"And where was I?"

"At our table, listening to something on that fancy reel-to-reel machine." Matt bites his knuckle, trying to remember what could possibly have been so interesting or important that he didn't hear Foggy hear getting sucked to the root not twenty yards away.

"Was it good?"

"It was heart-stopping."

Matt taps along the inseam of Foggy's trousers. "Who was better, your wife or Larry?"

"Debbie." Foggy gasps, spreading his legs by a fraction of an inch.

"Why?"

"Because I love her, Matt. Because I could look into her eyes and touch her hair and know it was someone who loved me too. Which probably tells you exactly how long it's been since something like that happened."

They're nearly in each other's laps and a sort of shy arousal is coming off Foggy in waves. Matt reaches for his loose necktie. "Do you miss it?"

"Yeah."

The knot comes apart in his hands.

"Do you wish she were here?"

"Yeah."

Matt pulls the tie out from under the collar—slowly, savouring the sound of silk against cotton—and ties it around Foggy's eyes.

"Will you stay there for me, for just a second?"

Foggy's throat clicks. "Yeah."

Matt feels his way to the bedroom, where a cloud of faint synthetic scent hovers over Debbie's vanity. Tubes of lipstick go rolling under his hands, and he plucks one at random. He's probably going to ruin everything by doing this, but he flips off the cap and applies the fragrant, sticky stuff to his lips.

His hair has dried in unruly waves, and he pulls them forward over his forehead. He sniffs at the perfume bottles—pricy, all of them, if Debbie took her favourite and left these, it must have been astronomically expensive—until he finds Jean Patou Joy.

"Matt?" Foggy asks, when he returns holding the bottle.

Matt sprays Debbie's blouse with the perfume and drapes it over his shoulder. He kneels on the floor in front of Foggy.

"What are you doing?"

Why is he asking that? There's no way that out of the two of them Matt is the one who knows what he's doing, but he takes off his glasses and brushes his cheek over Foggy's. He's come this far.

Foggy makes a bewildered sound, and Matt hesitates, breathing lipstick-scented air over Foggy's mouth. It's not a kiss, it's just the barest rasp of skin over skin. But Foggy surprises him—he always does—by sweeping his thumb over Matt's decidedly square jaw and stroking the scented silk on his shoulder. His nostrils flare. "Deb?"

It's so wrong, but Matt leans his forehead gently against Foggy's and sighs high in his throat, breathy and feminine. He pulls back when Foggy groans and tries to kiss him.

He takes Foggy's hands in a light grip, trying to disguise the bluntness of his fingers and his rough knuckles. All of a sudden he feels as ungainly as a bear—nothing about the shape or feel of his body even the slightest bit convincing as Foggy's slight, delicate wife.

"You're really here," Foggy whispers, kissing the backs of Matt's hands, "you came back."

Matt drags his palms reverently over Foggy's curve then kneads in with his thumbs all the way up his thighs. Every touch is a question: "can I."

"Please," Foggy huffs, as Matt opens his trousers. His body smells warm and eager, and Matt nearly pitches over with how good it feels. "Deb, please, I need you." He reaches into his own underwear, lifts out his cock by the base and angles it towards Matt's mouth, offering.

Matt puts out his tongue and licks the head, groaning at the velvet softness, then wraps his lips around it. Foggy cries out, and Matt squeezes the front of his own trousers. Foggy feeds him inch after inch, until he bumps the back of Matt's throat and electricity flows down Matt's spine. "Can you, oh my god, Deb. _More_ , can you?"

In answer, Matt pulls off and sucks Foggy's fingers into his mouth, all the way down to the knuckle. It makes Foggy gasp, which makes Matt squeeze himself again. "Baby, _please_."

Foggy's cock nudges Matt's tonsils and lingers there as all the blood in Matt's body sizzles. Breathing deep, he opens his throat and slowly sinks further down, hollowing his cheeks. Foggy throws his head back and his fingers are suddenly locked tight around the back of Matt's neck. "Oh god, Deb," he moans.

Matt's eyes leak tears; it's close to too much—Foggy's strong hands and his gentle murmurings. Foggy's hard length in his throat, stealing his breath and taking up his whole world, the fizzy scent of Joy, and waxy lipstick making it seem like it's someone else, not him, who's swallowing around Foggy thickness and whining at the sensation.

And this: "I love you. I love you," Foggy babbles, raking his nails over Matt's scalp. Matt gulps and swallows and makes the most obscene gurgles of enjoyment he's ever made as Foggy works himself so far down his throat that Matt feels like he could blow apart at the seams.

"Are you ok?" Foggy gasps when Matt pulls off for air. Matt leans his cheek against Foggy's palm and nods. "Baby, are you ok?"

Matt freezes. Foggy can't actually want him to answer, can he?

Foggy cups Matt's other cheek, pulls him close and kisses his mouth.

"Say something, love."

Matt coughs, tries to make his voice silky as a woman's, "Foggy," and cringes because he doesn't sound like Debbie at all. He sounds like himself when he's making love, intimate and hungry and male. But Foggy doesn't seem to mind and kisses him again, smearing his lipstick.

"Do you want to stop?" Foggy mutters against his lips.

"No," Matt croons, opening his mouth for Foggy's tongue, "I can keep going."

Foggy groans and feeds Matt his cock. Matt accepts it hungrily and uses his hands this time, yanking Foggy's hips towards him and sinking down till he's kissing Foggy's pubic bone. It's perfect, a halo of Foggy's scent and his cock cutting off Matt's air until lights are dancing over the inside of his skull. Matt thinks that, if given the chance, he could bury himself in sex with Foggy, thinks it could take up his whole horizon like nothing else has before.

"Close," Foggy stutters as Matt hollows his cheeks around him, "I'm. Oh fuck," he cries, and fills Matt's mouth. Matt swallows and licks Foggy till he's clean, rests his head on Foggy's leg, pulls deep breaths.

"So, better than Larry?" Matt asks between gulps.

"Larry who?" Foggy pants, running his fingers through his hair and then Matt's. "Deb, that was amazing." Matt feels his teeth clench. He forgot. Foggy pulls him close. "Come up here, baby. Kiss?" Matt can smell himself sweating and the perfumed shirt got flung away at some point. Even his lipstick has worn off. He feels for Foggy's blindfold—it's still in place but he can't possibly fail to notice that it's a man he's touching.

"I don't care about the taste, please kiss me?" And what's Matt supposed to do, refuse? He surges up and kisses Foggy, sucking on his tongue with as much energy as he did his cock, and lets Foggy push him back onto the cushions.

"Oh my god Deb, my toes are still tingling," Foggy laughs into Matt's mouth, "Your turn, whaddya think?" Foggy grins wide—Matt can hear it, rubs the bulge in Matt's trousers and fumblingly pulls down the zipper.

"Foggy, what are you doing?" Matt gasps. His voice comes out breathy, but that's more confusion than anything else.

"I'm making love to my wife," Foggy says warmly, his fingers wrapped around Matt's cock. "Shh, I've got you," he soothes when Matt arches his back, suddenly out of breath and teetering on the edge.

"Sweetheart," Matt breathes, head thrown back. Who is he? With Foggy's body pressing down all over him and Foggy's hungry voice in his ears, he can't be Matt. Is he Debbie? Debbie married Foggy, she's allowed to be driven wild by her husband's touch. He can't be Matt. Matt doesn't get to have this.

" _Sweetheart_. Love the way you say that," Foggy kisses the words against Matt's neck and strokes slickly over Matt's shaft. "You're wet," he hums approvingly.

Matt's heels drum on the sofa as Foggy pulls at him. It doesn't matter who he is—Debbie, Matt—Foggy's palm is wide and his grip is tight and the words he's murmuring feel as good as his hands.

"You're so beautiful, Deb. Love you. I just love you."

"Foggy," Matt sinks his teeth into his lip and chokes as Foggy's fist becomes wet and slippery with his come.

Foggy ghosts his lips along Matt's cheek, kisses his temple and his eyelids. "Love touching you," he says.

For a long time, nothing happens. Foggy wipes his hand on his shirt. Matt's back grows increasingly cold and unpleasant in the silence and it's not just cooling sweat. What has he done? He's masqueraded as a man's soon-to-be-ex-wife and put his mouth where only she should be.

Foggy licks along the seam of Matt's tense lips. "Take off the blindfold for me." Matt hesitates, and Foggy says, "please, sweetheart."

Slowly, Matt unknots the blindfold and Foggy opens his eyes.

"Cherries in the Snow," he whispers ruefully.

"What?"

"That lipstick. Cherries in the Snow."

"I think it's smeared," Matt says, for lack of anything better.

"Yeah. You look like you've been kissing all night."

Matt should probably lever himself out of Foggy's embrace, tuck his cock away, and get down to business making himself believe this never happened, but Foggy's lips find his again, so he stays, even though he's burning with questions.

_Could you tell I wasn't Debbie? Of course you could. Why did you touch me if you knew it was me? Why did you say you loved me? Did you mean it?_

Foggy tugs at Matt's hair affectionately. "Glorianna went home today, didn't she?"

Matt fell into the Hudson once, in February. This is a colder shock. "What are you saying?" he demands, sitting up.

"Nothing," Foggy says, startled, "I wasn't sure if that was today or not."

Matt zips up and pushes off the sofa. "You think I'd—if she were still here? You think I'd cheat on my girlfriend?"

Foggy's doing up his trousers too. "You think I'd cheat on my wife?" he retorts softly. Matt freezes.

"That wasn't my fault." Foggy's head snaps up. "I mean—that's not what I meant. I thought you said she was your soon-to-be-ex-wife."

"Yeah, we're through," Foggy admits, "and I'll never know for sure that she didn't sleep with Synn—even though that doesn't really matter now." He leans back on the sofa and covers his face. "Good god, Matt, what did we do?"

That's not a question Matt needs answered.

"Glori did leave today," he says instead.

"Yeah, ok, Matt," Foggy says in a tone that means he knows where Matt's thoughts are headed and thinks it a stupid direction.

"So. Technically, we're both single." He rests his elbow on the highboy cabinet and ignores the snort that comes from the direction of the sofa. "We didn't do anything wrong."

Foggy drags his palms down his face disbelievingly. "What are you saying?"

"Nothing, I'm just saying that we didn't cheat. Either of us." Maybe it wasn't really even him at all. Maybe it was Debbie this whole time. "She doesn't have to know, does she?"

"No, but I won't lie if she asks. "

"Why would she ask?"

"She always knew I was a bit funny about you," Foggy sighed.

"Funny?"

"You know."

"I don't." Matt crosses the room and stands next to the sofa. After a moment's hesitation, he pets Foggy's hair, and inhales when he leans into it. "Foggy, tell me."

"Don't make me say it." He sounds so grumpy that the corners of Matt's lips tilt up and he sinks his hand into Foggy's hair, scratching lightly. "I've been carrying a bit of a torch, ok?"

Matt's shocked. "A torch? For me? Since when?"

"I don't know. Since college," Foggy mumbles, head hung low.

Matt drops onto the sofa and noses at Foggy's face playfully with his own to lift it out of its slump, again and again like a cat might nuzzle, until Foggy starts to laugh, "Matt, oh my god." He pushes at Matt's grinning face but lets himself be kissed anyway.

"You love me?" Matt asks hopefully.

"I said as much, didn't I?"

Matt bites his lip. "I wasn't sure if you were talking to me."

"Who else could I be talking to?" Matt raises his eyebrows. "Oh. Right. That was—something else, huh?"

"It was...heart-stopping," Matt whispers.

"Matt," Foggy says, sobering suddenly, "I'm getting a divorce."

"I know."

"If she even hinted she'd be willing to try to work it out, I'd be fighting for her tooth and nail. But she hasn't been happy in a while, and I haven't been either, and so I guess it's too late," Foggy admits, and Matt nods, hoping that at the end of the speech Foggy'll end up somewhere where he'll give the two of them a chance, "but I hate it. I hate that I couldn't stick it, Matt."

"It wasn't a matter of sticking it, Foggy. She gave up first."

"Matt," Foggy sounds tired, "when you get married, you'll quickly realize that who did what first doesn't matter."

"Maybe," Matt says tightly. This isn't going where he'd hoped.

"So what I'm trying to say is. That. Starting something—wouldn't be. I'm not—things haven't been good."

I know."

"But they might be." He brushes Matt's lips. "Someday. I hope."

Matt deepens the kiss when Foggy tries to pull away. "Are you asking me to wait for you?" Matt's no good at delayed gratification, but for Foggy, he'd try.

"I'm not asking you to live like a princess in a tower. Just—

"Someday." Matt finishes for him.

"Yeah."

"Will you clean up in here in the meantime?"

"Oh my god, you're heartless," Foggy bursts out, but he does look around and make a disgusted noise, "actually yeah, I will. Come over tomorrow, it'll be better."

Matt chews on his lip—he can still feel the stretch of Foggy seated in his throat whenever he swallows, surely they can't just go back to shooting shit like old buddies already—and asks, "are you going to kiss me if I do?"

Under Matt's fingers, the corner of Foggy's mouth lifts a fraction. "Maybe, if you're charming enough."

"I'm always charming."

"Yeah, you are."

"Foggy," Matt kisses him, briefly but heartfelt, "you weren't the only one carrying a torch. Yeah, I know. Not now," he says, when Foggy pulls away reluctantly, and gets up to retrieve his coat. "I can be patient, Foggy."

"Mmm, not in the ten years _I've_ known you, but it's nice that you think that." Foggy stops him with a hand on his elbow and scrubs at Matt's face with a shirt cuff. "Lipstick, genius."

"Oh, right." He can still smell himself all over Foggy's skin, his clothes, on his breath, and he boxes Foggy against the door, kissing him one last time. "So you don't believe I can be patient?"

"I believe you can't keep your hands off of me," Foggy snickers, and with a guilty grin Matt snatches his arms back from where they've wound themselves around Foggy's waist.

"Sorry. I'll be good. And—" he doesn't know why it's important that he say this as himself, looking like the man Foggy telephoned earlier and not passing himself off as someone else, so he puts on his glasses and clears his throat, "when you're ready, I'll be waiting."

Foggy runs a thumb over Matt's lip, and it's more intimate than anything that's happened tonight. "Don't promise," he says, and Matt can hear the conflict in his voice—of wanting Matt and grieving Debbie, of a post-coital high and guilt in equal measure. He kisses Matt yearningly, and they both know it's the last time—for a while, anyway.

"I don't need a promise," Foggy taps Matt's lips again. He's reluctant to pull away, but he does, smiling slightly. "But if you say you will, you know where you can put your money."


End file.
